


Shatter

by irisbleufic



Series: The Ground Beneath My Feet [1]
Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Character, Communication, Disability, F/M, First Time, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Loss, M/M, Partially Deceased Syndrome, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:19:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I know who the First Risen really was, though," murmurs Kieren, rousing from sleep.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shatter

**Author's Note:**

> There is [an 8tracks.com playlist](http://8tracks.com/irisbleufic/in-the-flesh-the-ground-beneath-my-feet) for this series.

_"You left.  I searched everywhere for you.  Where did you go?"_  
  
_"The city."_  
  
_"Why?"_

*

 

 

Even as NHS surgeries go, the waiting area at Roarton Medical Centre is unequivocally _dire_.

They've done away with that atrocity of a holding cell ( _Cage_ , hisses Simon's back-brain, furious and feral), but it does little to improve the overall ambiance.  He's not sure why they've even bothered with the bucolic pastoral scene on the opposite wall.  There's the ghost of stinging to the right of Simon's shoulder blade, and it runs all the way through to where the bullet passed beneath his collarbone and onward to points unknown.

Buried, perhaps, in Roarton earth.  Buried like their friend soon must be, never to rise again.  

Simon tries not to think about this, about the fact he's _feeling_ , but Amy's just finished bleeding out before his disbelieving eyes, and Kieren's in the seat right next to him.  They’ve been sent back out to await treatment while Doctor Russo administers a sedative to Philip and, heavy-hearted, calls the coroner from the admin desk while Philip's taut, broken sobs begin to fade.

"Don't embalm her," Tom instructs.  "Her friends say not this time.  It's in her second will."

Kieren shifts closer, leaning against him, so Simon slings his arm across the back of Kieren's chair.  Kieren looks as empty and exhausted as Simon feels; the dark smear beneath the pale, cool blue of his lips is garish.  It needs tending, and so does the damage Simon's sustained: the bullet-hole in his shoulder, the pulled staples along the angry black gash of his spine.  
  
"Did Amy ever tell you how she knew me?" Kieren asks, brushing his forefinger along Simon's thumb as a distraction.  That maddening artist's impulse, tracing what he soon intends to sketch.

Simon shrugs, tilting his chin to rest it atop Kieren's head.  "I can't say as she ever did," he replies, wilfully ignoring the catch in his throat that _should not be there_.  "She said you were the sweet, yet prickly boy-next-door type, so I didn't ask questions.  Small-town romance, hey?"

"It wasn't like that," sighs Kieren, with a hint of devastated laughter, "but I'm flattered you'd think so.  We hunted together."  He's near tears, or near the closest they can manage.  "Jesus, Simon.  So many of us think we're fucking indestructible, but _this_.  How. . . "

They sit awkwardly for a minute or two, and Simon rubs Kieren's arm, kisses his hair, his forehead, his mouth, until he can no longer bear the silence.  "That's not for us to know," he says, concealing his frustration.  "The only reason _I'm_ here is because my parents couldn't follow simple instructions to save their lives," Simon sighs.  "My express wish was to be burned."

Kieren disentangles himself from Simon's embrace and just _looks_ at him.  "Yeah," he says at length.  "Same, and same with mine.  I'd wanted to be cremated. Thank goodness they didn't do it, I guess.  We wouldn't be here."

Simon closes his eyes, experimentally bites his lower lip.  He needs what he's about to say to hurt him as much as it's going to hurt Kieren.  With resignation, he says, "You asked me why."

"Yeah," Kieren agrees, leaning back into him, so trusting it strains Simon's terrified resolve.

"All right," says Tom, coming through the barrier to their side of the glass.  "Who's next?"

"We'll come through together," replies Kieren, but his eyes are fixed on Simon.  "Keep talking."

Simon swallows, permitting Kieren to grab his hand and string him after Tom, who leads them solemnly back to a different exam room.  They pass Amy's on the way, glimpse Philip sleeping.

"I was in Preston because I'd been instructed to receive orders," he sighs.  "From the Prophet."

If Tom's listening to their conversation, he's doing a solid, tactful job of pretending that he isn't.  He hands Kieren a gown, indicating that he should undress and have a seat on the exam table.  Simon takes the chair next to the desk as Tom temporarily exits, watching as Kieren strips without a shred of shame.  It's the first time Simon's seen all of him, and he _is_ beautiful.

"I'm mad as _shit_ at you, Simon," Kieren seethes, chucking his boots one after the other in Simon's direction; they miss, but the ruined bundle of his clothes lands in Simon's lap.  "But I'm going to give you benefit of the doubt," he adds, blue-white venom coursing in every limb as he slips into the gown and ties it shut.  "Did the ULA people contact you, or did you reach out?"

"I reached out, as you so tastefully put it," Simon admits.  "How does that make you feel?"

"No, Simon, how does that make _you_ feel?" asks Kieren, tauntingly, and hops up on the table.

"I needed to report what I'd found," Simon insists.  "If I hadn't, they'd have hunted me down."

"Report?" Kieren echoes, his features twisting in confused disgust as Tom comes back into the room with more supplies than Simon's seen since the Treatment Centre.  "What _had_ you found?"

Simon feels his jaw tighten in distress, the reflex far too quick, and that unsettles him, too.  "You're not stupid," he tells Kieren as Tom opens the gown and examines his chest.  "The way you were talking out there when we first arrived—well, I thought you'd worked it out."

"I seriously, _seriously_ don't understand," says Kieren, with mock flippancy, but Simon knows he's talking like this because he's in pain, too, and it's scaring him past the point of rational thought.  "You're just going to have to assume I'm the dumbest of Amy's dumbs, okay?"

The retort is well aimed and perfectly chosen.  Simon flinches, staring at Kieren's clothes.

"You said you weren't the Messiah," he murmurs, "but you'd previously led me to believe—"

"Oh my _God_ ," Kieren manages to gasp around the wipe Tom's using to swab the remnants of Blue Oblivion and bile from the corner of his mouth, the curve of his lip, his stubborn chin.  "You thought I was the First Risen?  Thought you'd cash in on that reward?"

"There's no reward!" Simon shouts, and Tom flinches in spite of the fact that he makes a professional effort of going on with the examination, having a look inside Kieren's ear.  "There never was!  I assumed they'd want me to persuade you to come back with me, to join us, but it didn't turn out that way.  I wasn't prepared to hear what I heard, and I hope my actions prove that."

Kieren's eyes flick to the open door, his lips parting in horror.  He mouths what looks like _Amy_ , and then his haunted eyes flash back to fix on Simon's.  "You were about to kill me," he says.

"Kieren, I didn't," Simon begs, rising, letting Kieren's clothes fall where they will.  "I _couldn't_."

"Oh, how fortunate for _you_ that you came to your senses," Kieren snarls, thumping the table so hard that he dislodges Tom from his examination of Kieren's other ear.  "You're a real credit to the force.  Listen, I'm guessing you've sworn this nonsense off now that I've heard you say the Second Rising's not going to happen, but is that because you no longer believe it or because you've decided to square with not making me your sacrificial lamb?"  Simon opens his mouth to reply, but Kieren launches back in to cut him off.  "And I'll tell you something else: even if it _did_ make a shred of difference who was the first?  It wasn't me.  _No_ , that rot I said while we were at lunch with my parents is _not_ true.  I was trying to scare the pants off Jem and Gary, because they fucking deserved it.  The storm wasn't that dramatic.  I wasn't alone.  I don't even know what time it was; I heard the clock, but do you honestly think I _counted_?  And anyway, who knows.  Are Neurotriptyline flashbacks any more reliable than dreams?" he asks, his voice gone raw, fixing Tom with a gaze that has simmered down to sad desperation.

Tom clears his throat and switches over to an ophthalmoscope, muttering an apology as he shines the light in Kieren's eyes one after the other. "There is, ah, compelling evidence to suggest that, while not guaranteed to be one-hundred percent accurate, there is likely a great deal of emotional truth held in PDS individuals' suppressed memories.  In the long run, discussing them as they come to the fore has proved helpful on the road to psychological recovery.  You're right to let it all out, Kieren.  _Hrm_.  If you wouldn't mind opening your mouth . . . ?"  
  
Simon covers his eyes, unable to face Kieren's demanding stare over the top of Tom's head as he bends to examine Kieren's tonsils.  Doctor Russo is so rattled that he's giving Kieren an examination largely useful only in the case of a living patient.  When Simon finally lets his hands drop, Tom is doing what he ought to have been doing from the start: examining the sutures in Kieren's wrists for damage and using the ophthalmoscope light to peer cautiously around the edges of Kieren's injection site.  His brow furrows in concern; he fetches another wipe and swabs the periphery gently, frowning when it comes away cerulean.  Kieren shudders in discomfort, and Simon steps forward before he can consider what he's doing.  
  
"The drug acts much faster when inhaled," he explains, reaching for Kieren's hand.  "We're lucky Gary administered it the way he did, if this situation can be said to have a silver lining at all."  
  
"Thank you, Simon," Tom says, making a note on Kieren's chart.  "That's useful to know."  
  
Kieren blinks, as if realizing how difficult he's been, and abruptly squeezes Simon's hand.  "I'm going to be okay, yeah?  So what about taking care of Simon?  Pearl Pinder shot him."  
  
"Yes, _er_ , let's be getting on," says Tom, hastily, and pats Kieren on the shoulder.  "You'd best get dressed, then.  I'm switching you over to the NT Plus, because that ought to help with the anxiety and any potential nerve-damage caused by the . . . ah, the Blue."  
  
Kieren ignores the instruction to dress himself; instead, he hops down from the table and starts to undo Simon's tie.  "We aren't finished," he says softly, moving on to Simon's buttons while Tom looks on.  "I'm glad you're safe, though, and I'm glad you didn't—you know."

Simon closes his eyes when Kieren sets a dry kiss to his lips and presses the gown, which he's lithely slipped out of, into Simon's hands.  "I'm glad, too, Kieren," he whispers.  "So very glad."  After such an impressive tirade, these gestures, however simple, are reassuring.  
  
While Simon's lying on the table and Tom's working on him, Kieren, who has dressed and pulled the chair over, holds both of Simon's hands.

 

 

*

 

 

By the time Doctor Russo has finished the irritatingly intricate task of stitching up Simon, Shirley has long since collected her son, and the coroner has come and taken Amy away.  As near to teatime as it is, early winter dusk has fallen.  Kieren thanks Tom as he leaves them alone in the exam room with a nod.  He fetches Simon's clothes from the desk and helps him to dress.

"I'll walk you back to the bungalow," Kieren says.  "You're in more danger than I am.  From the others, I mean. They seemed like a pretty threatening presence out there today. On the off-chance any of them know that you thought I was—"

"They don't know anything, Kieren," Simon replies, standing motionless as Kieren redoes his tie with confidence born of too many mornings spent sorting out Jem's school uniform.  "They only know what I've told them, and that's that there'll be no Second Rising.  Not today, not ever."

"I wouldn't say that," says Kieren, thoughtfully, straightening Simon's collar, and then adjusts his blazer.  "We don't even know why the Rising _itself_ happened, so who's to say there _won't_ be a second one sometime?"  His lips quirk in a reluctant smile.  "Stranger things have happened."

"Like what?" Simon asks, stepping over to open the door and hold it for Kieren.

"I don't know," says Kieren, feigning nonchalance, but it doesn't quite work, because he looks sad and tired again.  He shoves his hands in the pockets of his tattered hoodie and darts into the corridor.  "Maybe the zealot lying down with the lamb for a start."

Simon has to sprint to catch up with him, but not so fast that it taxes the tight new patch-work in his shoulder and back.  "Last time I checked," he says, striding hopefully ahead to hold open the next two sets of doors, "you were mad as shit at me."

"Yeah," Kieren admits, shrugging as he passes by Simon a second time, then a third, not quite managing to hide his smirk as they stroll out into the frostbitten early evening, "but you're sort of attractive for a rotter, and I missed you."

The walk home ( _Home?_ Simon thinks, bewildered) is curiously peaceful.  When they're nearly to their destination, someone passing on the opposite side of the street raises a tentative hand and waves to them.  Simon squints, recognizing the figure as Dean; Kieren, quicker to know who he's looking at, hesitantly waves back.  He slips his arm through Simon's, and they trudge on.

Pausing at the foot of the bungalow steps for a good-night kiss isn't the wisest thing either of them has ever done, especially not when Simon realizes too late that lights are on in the front room.  Kieren glares at the stirring curtains and marches up the stairs, dragging Simon along.

"I thought they'd have at _least_ had the sense to bugger off by now," Kieren mutters under his breath, yanking open the door.  A room full of wide, astonished white-ringed eyes regards them as they push inside, Zoe and Brian already on their feet and stepping forward.

"That's a lot of nerve," Zoe says, addressing Simon as if he's alone.  "Coming back here."

Brian clears his throat uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.  "Maybe not the best idea."

"How spineless and stupid _are_ you lot, anyway?" says Kieren, stepping between Simon and Zoe, all fearless burning bravado in spite of his obvious exhaustion.  "In the event Simon hasn't read Amy's will to you backwards and forwards—which, by law, he isn't obliged to do, given you lot are basically _squatters_ when nobody else is about—she's left this place to him and most of her other stuff to me."

"Look at that righteous anger," Zoe laughs, her eyes drifting back up to Simon. Where once there had been adoration in her gaze, he perceives only hatred. "You've rubbed right off on this one, you have.  Probably even literally, innit?  What's the jailbait like? _Tasty_?"

Simon can't contain the rage that swells in him then, can't even remember the last time he so blindly lashed out at one of his fellow undead.  " _Get_ _out_!" he shouts, and Kieren is so stunned that he steps back from the very confrontation he'd started.  "The lot of you!  Clear off before I decide taking this to court looks like a _marvelous_ idea.  You first, Captain," he sneers at Zoe, indicating the door, "and your Leftenant there, too."

"C'mon," says one of the others, uncomfortably, and brushes past her.  "Let's just go home."  One by one, the ULA, Roarton Reserve Chapter, file out until they're down to Zoe and Brian stoically regarding Simon and Kieren.  Zoe tilts her head, and Kieren takes a step closer.

"Your boyfriend's a brainwashed zombie," Kieren tells her.  "I hope for _his_ sake he wakes up."

" _Your_ boyfriend's a traitor," Zoe snaps, beckoning to Brian.  "Come on.  I'm sick of the sight."

As soon as they're out the door, Simon slams and bolts it, exhaling hard.  There's no need for labored breath, but Simon's lungs are filled with pins and needles and Kieren has Simon trapped up against the jamb and is kissing him hard, kissing him like he's _livid_ , and maybe he still is.

"Did you hear her?" Kieren murmurs against Simon's mouth.  "You're a traitor.  That's _hot_."

"Is it?" Simon retorts, but his heart's not in fighting.  "Treachery's a turn-on?  Since when?"

"Since it's the opinion of those nutters that you are," Kieren insists, and then there's more kissing and Kieren's clever hands tugging at his belt.  "They weren't always like that.  What changed?  Why aren't you their Moses anymore?  Their idol?"

"Time and bitterness," says Simon, wistfully, stroking Kieren's cheek.  "That and the Scheme."

"Fuck _that_ ," mutters Kieren, tugging Simon's shirt free of his trousers, and suddenly, in the low light, it's unmistakable.  His features are contorted in grief and there's the slightest line of unshed tears limning the brightness of his eyes.  "We're non-compliant, and Maxine's not here to care."

He's got his face buried against Simon's neck now, shaking, more crying than kissing it, but he's still trying to get Simon undressed.  Much though Simon's not averse, the notion freezes him. His hands settle at Kieren's hips, bracing him against the force of their shared grief.

"Kieren, are you even thinking straight?" asks Simon, softly.  "We just lost her.  Only _just_."

"I don't want to feel like this anymore," Kieren sobs, sagging against him.  "God, I _don't_."

What Simon finds easy, startlingly so, is swinging Kieren up in his arms as if he weighs nothing.  What's harder is wrestling Kieren's mobile out of his back pocket, whilst simultaneously carrying his distraught arse to the bedroom, and dialing his mum one-handed.  The call rings through.

"Kier, is that you?" says a worried, familiar voice on the end of the line; Simon scarcely manages _not_ to grunt as he stumbles across the threshold and dumps Kieren on the bed.  "Are you still down at the surgery?  What does Doctor Russo say, are you all right?  Do you need—"

"Ah, hello, no," says Simon, apologetically, and sits down beside Kieren.  "Sue, it's me."

"Is Kieren all right?" she asks plaintively.  "Simon, love, what's happened?  Where are you?"

"At the bungalow," Simon replies.  "It's safe here, I promise.  The riff-raff have scattered."

"Thank goodness for that," says Sue, lightening up, and Simon finds he's beginning to love her for it.  "Steve's worried _sick_ , he is.  Be sure to have Kier home in time for breakfast; his dad will want to fuss over him.  Simon, are _you_ all right?"

Kieren is wiping his eyes with the too-long sleeves of his hoodie, leaving charcoal-dark streaks on the cuffs, regarding his tears, his first tears in five long years, with dismay.  He looks unbearably young in that moment, _vulnerable_ , and Simon's chest tightens.

"We'll all need a good night's rest," he says.  "There'll be no end of things to do tomorrow."

"Don't I know it," says Sue, sobering again.  "Shirley's taken the funeral in hand.  It's Saturday."

 _Forty-eight hours_ , Simon thinks.  _Even with cold storage, that's pushing it_.  "Then Kieren and I will stop by the Wilsons' after breakfast at yours," he says, hardly recognizing his own voice as it shapes the words.  "They'll need to go over the will.  It's specific.  There's a guest-list."

Kieren is sitting up now with his back turned to Simon, unlacing and tugging off his boots.

"Take good care of him, won't you?" asks Sue, imploringly.  "See to it he gets some sleep?"

"I'll do what I can," Simon promises, toeing off his shoes.  "Give Steve my best.  Good night."

"This morning, they weren't even talking to _me_ like I'm human," Kieren sighs, dropping hoodie and jumper on the floor.  " _You've_ got them wrapped around your little finger. Next thing you know, they'll have you up for Prospective Son-in-Law of the Year. No _way_ will Gary win the nomination."

"They're just being polite," Simon sighs, unknotting his tie, yanking it off.  "I'm a stranger."

"Strangers generally aren't on a first-name basis," Kieren yawns, shimmying out of his jeans, and it's all Simon can do to avert his eyes; he remembers earlier, and part of him _hungers_.  "Not across the living-undead divide, which is how you'd put it.  Beating the bounds indeed."

"You're tired, Kieren," says Simon, shocked to find that he scarcely thinks twice about leaving his burial clothes unceremoniously puddled on the floor.  "Let's get some rest now.  We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Do you feel anything?" Kieren whispers, fingers fanned against Simon's shoulder blades. "What did they do to you?"

Simon catches Kieren's left wrist, turns his head as he draws the back of Kieren's hand up to his lips.  "That's another story for another time," he says, kissing the spot, and then turns Kieren's hand to kiss the heart of his palm.  "I don't need it giving _you_ nightmares, too."

*

Getting Kieren out of bed without benefit of a nagging teenage sister or stern well-meaning father, Simon discovers, is easier said than done.  He kisses and cajoles and pokes and prods and finally, _finally_ resorts to yanking away the covers.  Kieren groans and buries his face in Simon's pillow; it is quite possibly the most endearing sleepy stalling tactic that Simon's ever seen.

They spend fifteen minutes kissing, trying to yank the duvet back up without having to stop.  Simon is somewhat chagrined that their first time sharing a bed hasn't proved to be the first time for anything else, but it hadn't felt right, and it _wouldn't_ feel right till they'd laid Amy to rest. 

Kieren mutters something about missing their injections, so they reluctantly stop and see to it. When it comes to spines, to what's left of their nervous systems, they've always been able to feel _something_. Once Kieren has flinched his way through his first dose of Neurotriptyline Plus, he turns the syringe on Simon. It burns the same way hitting Simon's system as any other version of the stuff.

"Ready to go?" Simon asks once Kieren's back in yesterday's clothes and _he's_ back in something that's not frayed and stained.  Kieren had once mocked Simon's jumpers, but now he says nothing, because he's let Simon bundle him into secondhand grey cashmere without complaint.

"Yep," he says, waving Amy's multi-page will before shoving it in his back pocket.  " _Allons-y_."

Whether Kieren's still sore about not having got to go to France or it's some arcane cultural reference, Simon isn't sure.  They're about ten minutes late to breakfast, but the only person moaning about it is Jemima.  She greets them at the door and hangs on Kieren's neck for ages.

"Wasn't me," she hiccups; only then is it obvious that she's sobbing.  "I didn't pull the trigger!"

"Jem, I know you didn't," says Kieren, rubbing her back.  "It was Pearl.  Which is dead ironic."

"Son, don't be making cruel jokes," says Steve, coming down the stairs with what looks like a folded parish newsletter in his hand.  "Scared your sister right out of her wits, you did.  Tell her you're sorry."

Kieren glances at Simon over Jem's head, about to roll his eyes, but Simon gives him a nod.

"I'm sorry," Kieren sighs, disentangling himself from his sister.  "I ought to've come home."

Simon smiles at Jem as comfortingly as he can, feels a warm, insistent prickle down his spine.

"Food's cooling, you lot!" Sue scolds them from the dining room.  "Get in here while it's warm!"

Two hours later, disentangling themselves from the Walkers, _period_ , is almost a relief.  Jem declines Kieren's offer to let her tag along to the Wilsons' residence, which, Simon realizes upon their arrival, is just as well.  Shirley embraces them like they're her long-lost sons and sees them inside; meanwhile, Philip sits at the far end of the sofa, staring red-eyed at the television.

"We'd best chat in the kitchen," Shirley whispers, and beckons them down the carpeted hall.

The day's planning largely consists of making telephone calls, some to sympathetic parties who say they'll attend and some to parties with whom Simon would rather have no traffic at all.  There are living and undead on both sides, which doesn't make the task any easier.

They stay with Shirley until suppertime.  She doesn't make them pretend to eat; for that, Kieren seems especially grateful.  When Simon forgets himself and takes a sip of tea from one of the two mugs Shirley had absent-mindedly set in front of them, Kieren gives him a curious look.

"Don't let it concern you, Kier," Shirley tells him with hesitant hope.  "Why don't you try?"

"Is it true, what I heard?" Kieren asks, eyeing his mug with mistrust.  "Amy was _eating_?"

"Little bits of apple here and there," says Shirley, her eyes brimming.  "It was a wonder."

While Kieren takes a minute sip of over-sweetened Yorkshire Gold, Simon considers his stomach, or what _might_ still count as his stomach; faintly and uncomfortably, it stirs. After being released from the Treatment Centre and kicked out of his father's house, Simon had made a study of modern embalming practices in the Western world. Unless they're missing or otherwise damaged, the internal organs are usually left intact.

The next day, with firm resolve, Simon doesn't cry at the funeral. He tells himself it's so as not to scare others with the sudden manifestation of an as-yet unobserved phenomenon in—in _PDS sufferers_. He grits his teeth as he thinks it, firmly taking hold of Kieren's hand.

Kieren having spent the previous night at home has permitted Simon time to reflect.  Simon sits tight-lipped through the service until the point at which Kieren squeezes his wrist and Amy's will indicates he's to play his guitar and sing.  It's a song Amy had loved since the album had come out in February—[sad and slow, by some London nobody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2fCcggNkTs).  It leaves Philip, Shirley, Jem, and Steve audibly in tears. Sue sits ashen and silent.

Graveside, no one remarks upon the roses that Kieren had spent hours painting on Amy's coffin lid late into the previous evening until their beloved friend is safely interred.  The Walkers' residence had seemed as good place as any for afterward, for food and company and the wake.

Simon spends a long time wondering what Kieren means by the hint of emphasis he's placed on the phrase _insane belief_ , so he's grateful of the chattering distraction Kieren's parents provide, and of the fact that no-one else has asked him about the rucksack.  Changes of clothes are a necessity where polite forays into food are required, so he's brought a few sets.

It's only once they're back at the bungalow later (with Sue's unexpectedly giddy approval, and with Steve's grudging acceptance) that it becomes clear Kieren has overindulged by having dared even two skull-decorated biscuits.  He chokes bile into the kitchen sink while Simon steadies him, mutters weakly that he hadn't meant for this to happen tonight, that this is not sexy _at all_.

"What about it?  There's no rush," Simon chides, rubbing his back.  "We're not in a race."

"Amy beat us to the post and back," says Kieren, miserably.  "With Philip.  Several times."

"When you're well," Simon replies.  "How about some telly; what's that program you like?"

They don't end up watching anything except for the news, because what's on the screen is a kaleidoscope of riots in Belfast, Glasgow, Manchester, and London on account of what's transpired in _Roarton_.  Living and undead have taken to the streets, demanding that the Give-Back Scheme be withdrawn.  Norfolk is on lockdown, armed guards in every camera shot. Simon wonders if Halperin and Weston are afraid.

"The silence will crush you if you let it," murmurs Kieren, drowsily.  "I'd like that story of yours now."

Simon nods, turns off the television, and tells him everything about Norfolk that there is to know.

Kieren is so quiet that Simon fears he might've drifted off, but he eventually squeezes Simon's hand.  

"Thank you," he murmurs indistinctly, languid as he presses a firm, reassuring kiss to Simon's cheek.

"D'you see?" Simon whispers to Kieren, who's feverish and half-asleep in his arms, and turns off the television before rising to bear his precious burden to bed.  "You're the ones we'd been waiting for, even if not in the way we'd been led to expect.  You've changed the game."

 

 

*

 

 

They're curled around each other, restless and half-awake in the early dawn light through the curtains when there's a frantic banging on the front door.  Kieren's out of bed and into his t-shirt and jeans before Simon can stop him, so he dresses as fast as he can and follows.

He finds Kieren just standing in front of the door and chewing his lip as the racket continues.

"Her tiger's gone!" Philip shouts, hammering with both fists.  "The ground's been disturbed!"

"This is _not good_ , Simon," Kieren says, turning to look at him.  "And I'm actually afraid."

Simon nods and brushes past him, steeling his lately-lit nerves, and opens the door.  Philip Wilson stands desperate and wild-eyed, his cheeks tear-and-earth streaked, dirt beneath his nails.  "Somebody took it away from her," he says blankly.  "Took it away and dug her up.  I know it."

"If the grave's been disturbed, then we need to alert the authorities," says Simon, trying to calm Philip with one tentative hand on the young man's shoulder.  "Kieren, can you make some calls?  Philip's mum, Doctor Russo, the police.  Anyone else relevant."

"Yeah," says Kieren, nodding and swallowing, his usual courage returning.  "Yeah, I can."

The three of them end up standing off to one side in the tense damp of morning while the same men that had tended to the digging and filling of Amy's grave the day before start in on it again.  The Chief Inspector of Roarton Police is there, as well as a team sent by the coroner; they, too, stand unnerved with their arms tightly folded.  Even before the exhumation had begun, the veracity of Philip's claim had been evident: the stuffed animal was gone, and soil lay scattered haphazardly about. Philip sniffles loudly.

"Whoever were after the rotter, they had sense to fill this back in," mutters one of the diggers.  "Would they'd had the good sense to leave the bloody plush; we'd have been nowt the wiser.  Not with all that rain we had last night."

"Oi, that's _enough_ ," says Shirley Wilson, marching onto the scene with Doctor Russo in tow.  She leaves Tom with the coroner team and crosses, honeybee-printed wellies squelching in the wet earth, to where Kieren is doing his best to comfort Philip while Simon glares at the diggers.

"Mum," says Philip, quietly, with the scarcest hint of a nod.  "Sorry I left me bed.  I had to . . . "

"Of course you did, love," Shirley replies, wrapping her son in her arms.  "Of _course_ you did."

As Amy's coffin is lifted ceremoniously into the light of day, Simon can already tell that something is wrong.  There isn't enough strain in the diggers' arms, isn't enough _heft_ to it. Simon remembers how solid she'd been, how steadfast, an anchor for Kieren _and_ for him.

"Looks like it's still nailed shut," says Kieren, sidling closer to Simon.  "That's something."

"I'm afraid it's something amiss, Kieren," Simon murmurs.  "I don't like it in the slightest."

The diggers pry up the nails one by one and lift the lid away.  Amy Dyer is not in her grave.

Simon expects Philip's next reaction to be a fresh bout of hysteria, but what happens instead, while the Chief Inspector and the others gawp in wordless dismay, is that Philip takes a few moments to stare himself before his expression blooms into something like amazement.

"Maybe she's alive," he says, and then glances sidelong at Kieren.  "Or undead!  I don't _care_.  Somebody must've helped her out, and she took the tiger with her. What about them others?  Do you think they could be hiding her somewhere, trying to keep her safe?"

"Zoe and company likely aren't given to such altruism at this point in time," says Simon, darkly, "so I doubt it.  Especially given Amy's loyalty to me and to Kieren.  Whoever did this has something else in mind for our Amy, and I fear . . . "

"There was a team here from Norfolk three days ago," says Tom, with reluctance.  "Very official, you understand.  A lady and a bloke.  Looking for her.  I didn't tell them where she lived, patient confidentiality and all that.  If they didn't leave—"

"They've taken her to the Treatment Centre," Kieren interrupts.  "Those absolute _bastards_."

"What will they do to her?" Philip asks, doubt flooding his features.  "Help her to get well?"

"My fear is they'll do quite the opposite," says Simon.  "Having been on the receiving end."

"We've got to do something," Shirley implores, looking to Tom.  "Do we have jurisdiction . . . ?"

"I've never had to request one be sent back to us," says Tom, and then glances apologetically at Simon and Kieren in turn.  "No offense meant.  At this stage, so far as we know, she _is_ dead.  In that instance, it's retrieval of a body unlawfully stolen.  Let's leave it with the Chief Inspector."

"We'll file our own paperwork, too," Shirley insists angrily, propping up her son as he breaks down.

When it's obvious that there's nothing more they can do beyond offering sympathetic ears and hands, Simon thanks Tom, Shirley, and Philip in turn before steering Kieren toward the lane.  There's that fire in him again, incandescent, and he's shaking with it.  He opens his mouth.

"I understand what you mean about it not being safe here," Kieren says in a rush, "but this is _exactly_ the reason we need to stay.  This and your old friends, not to beat the undead horse.  There are ways of getting involved at a distance; there's that PDS Pride mailing list out of Liverpool that meets once a month.  Remember Amy's love of day-trips?  I wouldn't mind weekends away."  He lets his restless hands drop to his sides, clenching them.  "My point is that we can't, we _shouldn't_ run.  Not when, on top of the scary stuff, things are changing for the better."

"Whatever you wish for, Kieren, I'm willing," Simon tells him, clasping one of Kieren's immovable fists, working his stiff fingers until they uncurl.  "I'm _for_ change, you know that, and I'd been going about it all wrong.  It's all I think about.  If this is where it starts, then here I rest."

Kieren cracks a smile and stops in his tracks, uses his grasp on Simon's hands to wheel him around and kiss him even in spite of the footsteps crunching a short distance behind them.  "Let's go to Paris once things settle down, once the travel ban's lifted," he says.  "Even a few days away from this place, Simon, _Christ_.  We'll need it.  We _do_ need it.  What about Dublin?"

"It's been so long since I've lived there I wouldn't know the first thing," Simon replies, finding he can't help but smile in the face of optimism given where they've just been.  "Not since uni. I remember some good pubs, but those are little use."

"Were you at Trinity?" asks Kieren, teasingly.  "All posh and whatnot, lit-and-drama snob?"

"That's just about the shape of it," says Simon, "but not the whole picture.  Try philosophy."

"Did you know UEA had offered me an art scholarship?" Kieren asks.  "Guess I blew _that_."

"Says who you couldn't apply again?" Simon replies as they stroll along, their joined hands swinging between them.  "And says who they wouldn't _offer_ again? I'm tempted to say your post-mortem work is even finer than your pre-passing Blue Period. You're talented, Kier."

"You've never called me that before," Kieren says.  "Only my family and my close friends do."

"I'd say I count as pretty close by now," says Simon, carefully.  "Unless you'd like me closer?"

"Oh, _lots_ ," Kieren agrees, but his brow's knit, as if considering.  "But there's still something."

Simon glances at his muddy shoes, kicks an errant twig out of their path.  "Ah.  Yes, I see."

"Was it always addiction?" Kieren asks, his steps slowing as drastically as his words, as if they're on eggshells instead of gravel and leaf-mould.  "Did you finish your studies, or was it too much?  It's just, I'm trying to understand—I want to _know_ —"

"If there's something you'd like to ask, Kieren," says Simon, firmly, "then you _ask_ , okay?"

Kieren meets his eyes sidelong, nodding.  "Why did I find Blue Oblivion in your room?"

Simon shrugs, feeling as much helplessness as relief.  "We all had it.  As a contingency."

"What, in case the situation went so pear-shaped that going rabid was the only answer?"

"I suppose you could put it like that," Simon replies, defeated.  "What more can I say?  If you want to know whether I was taking hits from time to time, addicted to _that_ , too, then the answer is no. I don't respond to anything else anymore. I've _tried_."

"I was afraid," says Kieren, but it's an apology.  "I took it away so you wouldn't be tempted."

"Not to worry," Simon sighs, tugging him in just enough to get an arm around his waist.  "There's nothing like death and some rounds of excruciating so-called rehabilitation for quitting. I have very few memories from when I was rabid. Why would I go back?"

Kieren laughs, and then looks ashamed.  "It had frightening moments," he admits.  "I didn't always enjoy it."

"Only some of the redeemed find genuine euphoria in taking the drug," Simon replies.  "The better-adjusted prefer sheep's brains, as you've probably noticed.  I've been known to enjoy the latter, but not for a while. There was too much risk."

"Are you so well adjusted now, Simon Monroe, that you're giving me the school drugs talk?" Kieren bolts, laughing in earnest this time, and Simon has no choice but to pursue.  It's a perfect reflection of their entire relationship to date, he thinks, as brief as it's been, and as his lungs swell with the chill of mid-morning gusts. There's a prickle down his spine again, fierce and insistent. It grounds him.

They reach the bungalow panting, both of them a decent facsimile of winded.  There's a purplish flush to Kieren's cheeks, more so than usual; Simon's certain he isn't imagining it.  If things are stirring, _changing_ within them as well as without, then they'd best get busy living.

"Are you sure you want these creaky old bones in your bed?" Simon asks once they're inside.

"You're forgetting I've had 'em there twice now," says Kieren, grinning, and even the _sound_ of him attempting to catch his breath is a wonder.  "Honestly, you're not _that_ much to crow about. You kick in your sleep, and Amy wasn't lying when she claimed you snore."

Simon steps close, kisses him, and then whispers against his cheek, "I do want you, Kier."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Kieren demands, taking another thrilling, shuddery breath.

To Simon, this boy, this boy he couldn't _possibly_ love more, will always be the First Risen.  He will always be beautiful, always as pale and will-o'-the-wisp strange as the day Simon first set eyes on him.  When Kieren takes Simon's hand and leads him to the bedroom, willingly he goes.

"Don't think I didn't notice at the surgery," Kieren says, dropping all of his top layers in a pile on the floor.  "I'd have had you there if Tom would've given us longer."  When Simon gapes at him, Kieren grins.  "I literally give _no_ fucks anymore, except for the one I'm looking at, okay?"

 _For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful_ , Simon thinks.   _Amen_.

 

 

*

 

 

Simon's bed in the bungalow is small, _painfully_ so, but one ought not to expect more when said mattress had previously been occupied by a tiny pensioner. Kieren tugs Simon's jumper up and over his head, almost tripping them as they continue to undress. There's a tremor in Kieren's agile, expressive hands that's more than a sign of warming. Simon covers them with his.

This, too, is a miracle, heartrending in its suddenness. Kieren, his brave Kieren, is afraid.

"What happened to Amy is happening to us, isn't it?" Kieren falters, his tone composed of equal parts uncertainty and desire. "We could die again someday. I could lose you," he says softly, rucking Simon's turtleneck urgently up around his ribcage, so Simon helps Kieren divest him of that layer, too, listening all the while. "You could lose _me_. But if they took her, does that mean—do they just want her body for research, do you reckon, or do they think they can bring her back? And if that's the case, has anything really changed? Even though we might get blood and a pulse and our appetites back, are we still undead? Will they still call us—"

"I don't know how it works, Kieren," Simon interrupts, kissing Kieren till he's quiet except for how eagerly he moans into Simon's mouth, "and I don't _care_.  Not as long as I'm with you."

"Okay," Kieren repeats, half out of his mind, and returns to scrabbling at Simon's belt just as he'd done a few nights before. " _Okay_. Jesus, did the Undead Prophet want to make sure nobody got into your pants or something?" He gives up as Simon takes over for him, watching hungrily, and then pushes Simon down on the mattress as soon as he's stepped out of his trousers.

"Easy there," Simon murmurs, but he knows it's more for his own sake than for the benefit of this stubborn, wondrous creature in his arms. "Nobody got in my pants _anyway_ , not that I know of."

"You didn't want it, then?" Kieren asks, panting between greedy kisses against Simon's neck, one hand already sliding with possessive determination from Simon's belly to the waistband of his boxers. "Not with anybody at the commune? Not even with Amy, not in the slightest?"

"For a while, I wasn't sure if we _could_ ," says Simon, breathlessly, but he's a bundle of raw nerves now, wracked afresh by that telltale prickle down his spine— _and_ by the way in which he's responding. Kieren's hand on him feels like the kind of bright-edged euphoria he'd once chased at the point of a needle. "But some discovered that we're perfectly capable. Amy did, if you really want to know. Adventurous, inquisitive Amy."

"Amy and who else?" replies Kieren, pulling away from Simon's neck. His hair's a mess, and his lips are swollen with the vivid forget-me-not flush of newfound circulation. "Are you _sure_ —"

"I don't know how _this_ works, but it still _works_ , okay?" Simon reassures him, tugging at Kieren's waistband. "Different, is all. Maybe better. Christ, what do you do, paint yourself into these?"

"I never liked the baggy ones," Kieren mutters, rolling away from Simon for just long enough to sit up and shove his skintight jeans down and off his hips. "They look daft, and I hate belts."

"Yeah, I can tell," says Simon, intending for the statement to sound cheerful, but instead it's halting and distant. Kieren's on his feet, swearing, trying to get his jeans and pants off all in one go. Even though he's making a comical mess of it, one ankle still stuck, Simon can see everything from Kieren's smooth, pale chest to the delicate, half-hard jut of his cock.

"I haven't gotten much farther or _more_ than this," Kieren admits, finally discarding both sets of bottoms on the floor, and gives himself a few moody strokes. "And that while thinking of _you_ , so . . . "

Simon feels like, if only his heart were beating, it might stop, or— _no_. Like it might start. With shaking hands, he shucks off his boxers and tosses them aimlessly toward the wrecked duvet.  "Shut your mouth and get the _hell_ over here," he hisses, reaching to tug on Kieren's wrist.

Kieren allows himself to be tugged back down on top of Simon without hesitation. He melts against Simon so sweetly, his breath high and shallow. Neither one of them is as hard as Simon would like them to be, but the feel of Kieren pushing against his belly sends heat flooding through Simon's limbs. He kisses Kieren deep and hungry, pauses to lick at the corner of Kieren's mouth.

Simon tastes salt, sweat, and chemical sharpness. He _tastes_ —

"Simon," Kieren wispers against Simon's lips, " _Simon_. Oh God."

"Better than anything, isn't it?" Simon murmurs, letting his eyes slip shut, lost in the feel of his prick snugged up between them and concentrating on the way Kieren's, too, is heavy and full and _damp_ , Jesus _Christ._ The shock of wetness against Simon's belly makes him startle as much as it makes him flush hot with the first fine sheen of sweat since—well, since fuck knows _when_.

Kieren squirms against him, whimpering. "I don't have any basis for comparison, but . . . "

"There's none when it comes to you," Simon breathes, shifting his hips up against Kieren's in tight, measured thrusts. He knows it won't stay like this, won't stay slow, won't stay placid; their blood, in time, will turn from sap to coursing, and they'll lose this strange, indescribable gift of feeling each movement, each press of flesh against flesh as if for the first time in existence. " _Kieren_."

The spasm that takes Kieren is so violent that Simon thinks it must be some delayed reaction to that morning's dose of medication, but the way Kieren's sobbing now, clinging for dear _existence_ as his newly-awakened nerve endings weather the surge of climax, sends Simon reeling. Kieren's fingers clutch aimlessly at the pillow, skitter through his hair, clutch at his nape. Simon groans.

It's long seconds, maybe _minutes_ or more before Simon returns to himself. Kieren is shivering, gasping in exhausted wonder against the side of Simon's neck, so Simon snags the sheet with his toe and drags it up till he can catch it between his fingers. There's a slight mess slicking their bellies, he can feel it; as if responding to Simon's sensory input, Kieren pulls at the corner of the sheet and lifts up just enough to stuff it between them. Simon kisses him, slow and even, determined to savor this as long as he can.

"I could sleep for a thousand years," says Kieren, drowsily content, and sags against him.

"Rest for a little while at least," Simon murmurs, kissing Kieren's cheek. "You've earned it."

The church-bell of Roarton Parish eventually tolls midday.  Simon opens his eyes, chasing cracks in the ceiling plaster.  He'll keep them right where they are for the rest of the afternoon if it will buy them some peace.  The world is a miracle, _they_ are a miracle, and his nerve-endings sing with it.

"I know who the First Risen really was, though," murmurs Kieren, rousing from sleep.

Simon sighs; he loves Kieren so much it's an ache.  "Tell me, then, if you're so smart."

Kieren snorts, nuzzling Simon's neck.  "I'm so clever I'm waiting for _him_ to figure it out."

In the stillness, in the warmth of this bed that's hourly becoming more and more _theirs_ , Kieren's meaning hits Simon like a second bullet.  The impact is harsher, stings more true.  It's _liberating._ "Jesus Christ," he says, fingers freezing in Kieren's hair.  "I was the first to respond."

"See?  _You_ were all you ever needed," Kieren tells him, bringing his hand up to join Simon's, twining their fingers.  "And not for any of that Second Rising bollocks, either.  _Dumb-dumb_."  He kisses the back of Simon's hand, and then flips it around to nip at the heel of Simon's palm.

And that's when Simon finally breaks down, without shame or resolve or anything left to stay his tears.  He's wracked by great, gasping sobs, and Kieren holds him through it as if he's been expecting this all along.  Not the Messiah, Simon's _arse_.  He'd have made a fine Disciple.

"You _are_ incredible," Simon says at length, letting Kieren use the already stained bed-sheet to wipe his cheeks.  It'd be no use chucking them straight in the laundry, not with how they'll be for days on end.  "You, Kieren.  You and Amy and this village—you changed everything."

"No," Kieren says, using his thumbs to finish the job.  " _You_ did that just by coming here."

"Well then," replies Simon, laughing for what feels like the first time since the Rising, "there'll be a lot more of _that_ happening, won't there, so long as you have some say in the matter?  We'd better hope Amy's gran has left lots of detergent stockpiled in the garden shed."

Kieren hits Simon with his pillow.  "We were totally having a moment, and you ruined it."

"No, Kier, we're still having it," Simon reassures him, stuffing the pillow behind his back.  "See, what you said isn't one-hundred percent accurate, to borrow the good doctor's turn of phrase."

"Are you calling me a liar, Simon?" challenges Kieren, shifting deliciously into Simon's lap.  "Are you saying I wouldn't recognize the First Risen even if he, I don't know, turned up starkers in my bed?"

"Even if no divine revelation was involved," says Simon, reverently, "I also needed _you_."


End file.
